"If we do not remember doing something, does it mean we did not do it?"
This is the story of Prince Darth—son of Clandareth, the Guardian King, and Sapphrine, the Guardian Queen.
It is a story of betrayal. Of innocence stolen. Of a mother forced to execute her own son.
And it begins with screaming.
The Morning Everything Changed
The sun had barely crested the horizon when Darth jolted awake. Not from a nightmare—though nightmares would come later—but from the sound of raised voices echoing through the palace corridors. His father's voice, usually measured and calm, roared with fury. His mother's reply cut through the morning air like ice shattering glass.
Darth threw back his silk sheets and stumbled to the window, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Below, in the courtyard where guards usually conducted their morning drills, his parents stood facing each other. Even from three stories up, he could see the tension radiating from their bodies—his father's fists clenched at his sides, his mother's grey eyes cold as winter stone.
They were arguing. Not the quiet disagreements behind closed doors that all couples have, but violently, publicly, in a way that made servants scatter and guards look away in discomfort. In a way he had never, ever seen before.
Something was terribly wrong.
Darth didn't think. He grabbed his black and silver garments—the formal robes that marked him as heir to both kingdoms—and threw them on over his sleeping clothes. His fingers fumbled with the clasps. He had to get down there. Had to understand what was happening. Had to—
The door to his chambers burst open.
Three royal guards stormed in, hands on their weapons.
"What—" Darth started, but strong hands gripped his arms before he could finish the question.
Guard: "My grace, I am sorry, but your mother has ordered you not to leave your room."
"My mother?" Darth struggled against their grip, confusion warring with indignation. "I'm the prince! You can't just—"
But they could. They did. They forced him back toward his bed, their faces apologetic but resolute. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked with terrible finality.
Darth stood in the center of his room, heart pounding, black and silver robes hanging askew on his shoulders. Outside, the argument continued. His mother's voice rose to a shriek. His father's response was too low to hear, but it carried the weight of breaking stone.
"Fuck," Darth swore under his breath, pressing his forehead against the door. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He stood there for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, trying to make sense of the chaos. Then—a sound. Soft. Rhythmic. Coming from the corner of his room.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Darth's head snapped up. A smile—the first genuine expression since waking—spread across his face. He knew exactly who it was. The only person who knew about the secret passage built into his wall. The only person he trusted completely.
His best friend.
Darth crossed to the ornate panel carved with scenes of ancient battles and pressed the hidden mechanism. Stone ground against stone as a section of wall swung inward, revealing a narrow passage lit by dim magical light.
On the other side stood Lance.
But something was wrong. Lance's sapphire eyes, usually warm with mischief or bright with laughter, were cold. Flat. His expression looked like death warmed over—no, not warmed. Death left out in winter cold.
Darth: "Lance! Thank the gods. What is going on outside? Why are my parents—"
Lance's voice cut through his questions like a blade through silk. Flat. Emotionless.
Lance: "You are going to want to stay in here. It is safer."
Safer? Darth's confusion deepened. Lance wasn't making sense. None of this made sense.
Darth: "What?! Why? Lance, what's happening? Did something happen with the Daemons? Is it the war? Is—"
Lance shook his head slowly. Almost sadly. That was somehow worse than the cold eyes.
Lance: "I am sorry, Darth. But it must be this way."
Darth opened his mouth to demand answers—what must be this way? What was Lance talking about?—but the words died in his throat. Because Lance's hand moved. Fast. Faster than Darth had ever seen his friend move. Something glinted in the dim light.
A needle.
Darth tried to step back, tried to shout for the guards, tried to do anything—but Lance was already there, already too close. The needle plunged into the side of Darth's neck. Cold. So cold. Like ice burning through his veins.
"Lance... why..."
But Lance didn't answer. He just watched with those cold sapphire eyes as Darth's vision swam, as his legs gave out, as the floor rushed up to meet him.
The last thing Darth saw before darkness claimed him was his best friend's face. Expressionless. Unmoving.
His world went black.
The Horror
What happened next, Darth could not remember clearly. The memories came in fragments—disjointed, horrifying, impossible. Like scenes from someone else's nightmare bleeding into his consciousness.
He woke in his body, but he was not in control.
That was the first horror. Waking to find himself standing in a corridor he didn't remember walking to, wearing clothes he didn't remember putting on. His hands were at his sides, but when he tried to lift them—to scratch his nose, to rub his eyes, to do anything—they stayed exactly where they were.
Frozen. Obedient to a will that was not his own.
Darth screamed. Or tried to. His throat worked, his lungs pushed air, but no sound emerged. His mouth didn't open. His lips didn't move. It was like watching himself through glass—seeing, feeling, understanding, but unable to influence anything his body did.
What's happening to me? he thought desperately. Lance? LANCE?
But Lance didn't answer. Because Lance wasn't hearing Darth's thoughts. Lance was controlling them. No—not controlling his thoughts. Controlling his body. The serum. The needle. Whatever Lance had injected into his neck had given his best friend control over Darth's physical form while Darth's consciousness remained trapped inside, helpless, screaming from behind his own eyes.
His body began to walk. Down the corridor. Down the servants' stairs. Out through a side entrance Darth had used a hundred times to sneak out of the palace.
Where are we going? Darth thought, panic rising like bile in a throat he couldn't control. Lance, please, whatever this is, whatever you're planning—
They turned a corner. The city streets opened before them. And Darth saw their destination.
The orphanage.
No.
No, no, no, not there. Anywhere but there. The orphanage where Darth had spent countless afternoons reading stories to the children. Where he'd taught them games and listened to their dreams and promised them that life could be better than the circumstances that had left them without families.
Those were his friends.
Darth's body pushed open the orphanage door. Inside, children looked up from their morning meals. Their faces lit with recognition and joy.
"Prince Darth!"
"You came to visit!"
"Will you tell us a story?"
Run, Darth tried to scream. Run! Get away from me! But his mouth smiled. His hand reached to his belt. Drew a blade he didn't remember carrying.
And the screaming began.
The children's screams. Not his. He couldn't scream.
Darth felt his arm swing. Felt the blade bite into flesh—small flesh, child flesh, flesh that had no defenses against divine strength. He felt the warm spray of blood across his face. Heard the wet sound of steel cutting through meat and bone.
Stop, he begged the body that wouldn't obey. Please, gods, please stop—
But he didn't stop. His body moved with terrible efficiency. One child fell. Then another. Then three more. They tried to run, tried to hide, tried to fight back with their small fists and makeshift weapons.
It made no difference.
Darth watched himself hunt them down. Watched himself slash and stab and slaughter. Watched the light fade from eyes that had looked at him with trust and affection mere minutes ago. He felt every movement. Felt the blade in his grip—his grip, his hand, his fingers wrapped around the hilt. Felt the impact of each strike. Felt the warmth of their blood soaking through his clothes.
But he could not stop. Could not scream. Could not do anything but watch as his body committed atrocities he would never, ever choose.
The orphanage fell silent. Twenty-three children. All dead. All by his hand.
Darth's body stood in the center of the carnage, chest heaving with exertion he could feel but hadn't earned. Blood dripped from the blade. Blood pooled around his boots. Blood painted the walls in arcs and spatters that would haunt every nightmare for the rest of his existence.
I didn't do this, Darth thought desperately, clinging to that truth like a drowning man to driftwood. This wasn't me. This wasn't me. This wasn't—
But it was his body. His hands. His blade. His blood-soaked clothes.
He was a prisoner in his own flesh.
And the worst part—the part that would break him in the end—was that somewhere in the back of his mind, he could feel Lance. Not hear his thoughts, exactly, but sense his presence. Sense his satisfaction at a job well done.
His best friend had turned him into a monster.
And he couldn't even weep.
The Awakening
Consciousness returned slowly. Painfully. Like clawing up through thick mud toward distant light.
Darth's first coherent thought was that his head was splitting open. The pain radiated from the base of his skull, pulsing with each heartbeat, turning his vision white at the edges. He tried to reach up to touch it, to see if he was actually bleeding—
His arms didn't move.
Panic flooded through him. Not again. Please gods not again— But this was different. This wasn't Lance's control. This was something else. Something metal. Something that bit into his wrists when he tried to pull away.
Chains.
Darth forced his eyes open. His vision swam, blurred, slowly resolving into the dim stone ceiling of what looked like a dungeon cell. He was standing—no, not standing. Hanging. His wrists were shackled above his head, iron cuffs biting deep enough that he could feel warm blood trickling down his forearms. His toes barely touched the floor. Every muscle in his shoulders and back screamed in protest.
He tried to speak. Tried to call for help. His mouth worked, but only muffled sounds emerged.
Gagged. He was gagged.
His mind felt like it was moving through honey. Slow. Confused. What happened? How did he get here? The last thing he remembered was Lance and the needle and—
The orphanage.
Oh gods. The orphanage.
Then the scent hit him. Blood. On his robes. On his hands. Fresh. Everywhere. Dried and crusted and unmistakable.
Darth's head snapped left. Then right. His vision cleared with terrible, perfect clarity.
The room was full of bodies.
Small bodies. Children's bodies. Their blood-soaked clothes and twisted limbs and empty, staring eyes.
His friends from the orphanage. All dead. All arranged around him like some sick offering.
Darth tried to scream. The gag turned it into a muffled keen that hurt his throat. He thrashed against the chains, ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood welling up around the iron cuffs. This couldn't be real. This had to be another nightmare, another fragment of Lance's control—
And Lance walked in with a wicked smirk.
Not in Darth's head this time. Not controlling his body. Really, physically there. Those sapphire eyes weren't cold anymore. They glittered with something worse. Satisfaction. Pride. Like an artist admiring his masterpiece.
Lance: "Well, I cannot say I did not warn you, my Prince. You should not have gone against your mother—not after she told you to stay in your room."
Darth's vision went red around the edges. Not from rage—though that came too—but from sheer, overwhelming incomprehension. Gone against his mother? He'd been locked in his room. He'd done nothing. He'd—
The memories flooded back. All of them. Every terrible, crystal-clear moment of the massacre. Watching himself kill. Unable to stop. Unable to even cry out.
Lance had controlled him. Made him kill. Framed him.
Darth's glare became furious. He strained against the chains with all his divine strength, not caring if he tore his hands off in the process. He would kill Lance. He would destroy him. He would make him understand exactly what he'd done, make him feel every ounce of horror and betrayal and—
Lance: "Your mother is on her way here to send you to the crystal prison. I guess next time you should choose your friends more wisely."
The words hit like physical blows. Crystal prison. That's where they sent the worst criminals. The ones who couldn't be allowed to die because death would be mercy. Where consciousness remained trapped in crystalline stasis for eternity, aware but unable to move, speak, or even sleep.
For crimes he didn't commit. For children Lance had killed using Darth's hands.
Tears formed in Darth's eyes. Hot. Shameful. Helpless. He tried to speak through the gag, tried to form words, tried to explain—but nothing came out except muffled, desperate sounds that made Lance's smirk widen.
"Save your breath," Lance said, turning toward the door. "She won't believe you anyway. Why would she? The evidence is all over you."
And he left. Just walked away. Leaving Darth hanging among the bodies of innocents, unable to defend himself, unable to explain, unable to do anything but wait for his mother to arrive and seal his fate.
The Execution
Sapphrine walked in like winter incarnate. Her stride was confident, unhurried. Her grey robes swept the floor without a whisper. No love remained in her grey eyes—she had already sacrificed her ability to feel love to create the Grand Keeper's Staff, and what looked back at Darth now wasn't his mother. It was a queen. Cold. Calculating. Unmerciful.
She looked at her son—bound, bloodied, tears streaming down his face—and felt nothing.
Darth's tears fell faster. Mother, he tried to say through the gag. Mother, please, I didn't— I couldn't— It wasn't me—
Sapphrine: "My son, you are far too much like your father. I fear I am going to have to send you to the crystal prison."
No. No, she couldn't mean that. The crystal prison was for— but she did mean it. He could see it in her eyes. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just... decision. Like she was choosing what to have for dinner.
Darth shook his head violently. Side to side, as much as the chains would allow. Please listen. Please look at me. Please see that I'm telling the truth—
Her expression didn't change. Her smirk grew slightly—not cruel, exactly. Just... satisfied.
Sapphrine: "Your opinion and your side matter not to me. Unchain him and bring him to the executioner's block."
Guards materialized from the shadows. They unlocked the shackles with practiced efficiency. Darth's arms dropped to his sides, nerveless and numb. He couldn't feel them. Couldn't feel anything except the overwhelming horror of understanding that no one would believe him. No one would even ask.
He tried to stand. His legs gave out. The guards caught him before he hit the floor—not gently, not roughly, just... efficiently. Like handling cargo.
They dragged him out. Through corridors he'd walked a thousand times. Past servants who turned away. Past guards who wouldn't meet his eyes. Out into the courtyard where he'd watched his parents argue that morning—had that only been this morning? It felt like years ago.
They secured him to a cross in the middle of the public square.
The wood was rough against his back. The ropes bit into his wrists—new pain layered over old. Darth could see the execution platform from here. Could see the crowd gathering. Could hear their murmurs building to shouts.
They thought he was a monster.
And how could he prove them wrong when his own body had committed the crimes?
The Public Condemnation
Sapphrine stood before her people, the Grand Keeper's Staff glowing in her hand like captured starlight. The crowd had swelled to hundreds—thousands, maybe. Desperate. Afraid. Hungry for justice. Or vengeance. In times like these, the distinction hardly mattered.
Sapphrine: "Citizens of Laderan! We must protect ourselves from the threat of our undead brothers! My son is guilty of being tainted with the power of Apocalyptica!"
Sapphrine: "To prove my dedication to you and our lands, he is not being saved from judgment. NO MERCY TO THOSE THAT SERVE APOCALYPTICA!"
The crowd roared. Not with shock or sympathy, but with savage approval. They wanted blood. They wanted sacrifice. They wanted someone to blame for the war, for the daemons, for every terrible thing that had happened to their dimension.
And Darth, bound and gagged and helpless, would do.
They began to chant. Dozens of voices at first, then hundreds, then thousands, all crying out in perfect terrible unison:
"LONG LIVE SAPPHRINE!"
The voices resonated far and wide. Shook the cobblestones. Made the cross against Darth's back vibrate with their fury and their fear.
Sapphrine turned to face him. Her son. Her heir. The boy she'd once cradled in her arms. She raised her staff and tapped it three times on the ground.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The chanting grew louder. Desperate. Ecstatic.
Darth felt it start. A pulling. Like invisible hooks buried in his chest, his soul, his very essence, and something yanking them outward. The pain was beyond description. Beyond endurance. Beyond anything he'd imagined possible.
His spirit left his body with an evil hiss—pulled into the dark portal Lance had summoned somewhere to Darth's left. Lance, his best friend, his betrayer, his destroyer, stood watching with those cold sapphire eyes as Darth's soul was ripped from his flesh.
Darth's last sight in the physical world was the crowd. Cheering. Celebrating. Believing they'd been saved from a monster.
Then darkness. Then crystalline walls. Then the horrifying realization that he could still think, could still feel, could still scream—but no one would ever hear him again.
The portal slowly closed.
His body turned to ash.
The innocent son, executed by his emotionless mother.
Betrayed by his best friend.
Framed for massacres he watched himself commit but could not stop.
This is the legacy of the Guardian Queen.
Lance's Secret
As Darth's body turned to ash, Lance smiled. Not the cold expression from before. A genuine smile. Satisfied. Almost... affectionate.
He bent down among the settling ashes, his fingers sifting through gray dust that had once been his best friend. And there—a glint of crystal. Small. Perfectly formed. Glowing faintly with trapped light.
Lance picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. Quick. Casual. Like he'd done this a thousand times before.
Sapphrine's gaze hardened. She'd seen the movement. Saw the bulge in Lance's pocket where something small now rested.
Sapphrine: "What is that, Lance?"
His sapphire eyes glowed with cosmic power—power Sapphrine hadn't seen him possess before. How long had he been hiding his true strength? How long had he been playing them all?
Lance: "Oh, nothing, my Queen. Just something that belongs to me."
Sapphrine: "You will tell me."
It wasn't a request. Queens don't make requests. But Lance laughed—actually laughed—and the sound made Sapphrine's hand tighten on her staff.
Lance: "That I will not. I have gotten what I came here for. You must finish your ceremony or the daemons will get you."
She growled. Low. Dangerous. But Lance was right. The crowd was waiting. The ritual had to be completed. The Grand Keeper's Staff required its sacrifice of emotions, and Darth's execution was just the beginning.
Lance vanished. Not teleported—vanished. Like he'd never been there at all. Leaving Sapphrine to force her people to sacrifice their emotions to the Grand Keeper's Staff. Leaving her to wonder what Lance had taken from Darth's ashes.
Leaving her to wonder if she'd made a terrible mistake.
And somewhere in the crystal prison, Prince Darth's spirit screamed—innocent, betrayed, and utterly alone. Screaming into crystalline darkness that would never answer. Screaming for eternity while the world above forgot he'd ever existed.
Except for Lance.
Lance would never forget.